Saving Graces
by MontyTheDog
Summary: They're both alone. T/Z


He finds himself thinking_ a lot_ about Somalia. And when he says 'a lot' he means a helluva lot. So much so that he can remember exactly how hard the chair felt against his ass, remembers how, after he found out that she was alive, he considered the very plausible idea that Ziva had more than likely been tortured in that very same uncomfortable seat, remembers McGee laying unmoving across from him, remembers Ziva saying her torture was justified. He also thinks about the word 'Abba' and how alone she was, how alone he was.

They were different. Extremely so. In fact, they were so contrasted that he could think of only one similarity between himself and her: they were alone.

_You are not alone._

He'd been lying.

She was alone. Her parents were dead, her brother was dead, sister dead.

Granted, not to think poorly of the dead, but he would always consider her father a bastard.

And her brother... Well.

Sister? _The best of us._ The one she'd known for the shortest length of time.

Mom? Who the hell knew. Tony _had_ gained a bit of respect for her when he learned that she'd stopped putting up with Eli's shit a long time ago.

And then he, he was alone as well. Mom: dead.

He was tired of blaming himself for his dad's faults. Why he'd forgiven his father last Christmas was still a mystery to him, and sometimes he looked down at that damn ring and wanted to pitch it into the garbage disposal. But he didn't. He answered Senior's calls, talked politely (albeit shortly) with him, pretended like things were okay.

Things were not okay, and he was pretty damn tired of pretending.

And sure, they had the team. Kinda. But when it came down to it, his house was empty. Hers was, too. His phone void of messages from loved ones, his inbox cleared save for the occasional coupon. And to hell if he didn't hate it.

So when his doorbell rings, he suspects it's a neighbor with a bill that got delivered to the wrong PO box by accident. She's the last one he suspects.

"Look who didn't fall off the edge of the earth! I was starting to think you got abducted by aliens. Sent to the Twilight Zone."

"Tony," she greets, completely ignoring the reference that he's almost positive she didn't understand.

He glances at her clock. "It's a little too early for a booty call, don't you think?"

"Stop being an idiot," she instructs, glancing around his apartment.

He can't say he's happy to see her.

She felt alone. Poor thing. He feels alone, too. Doesn't mean he's going to go do something that- in Tony's opinion, anyways- was much worse than cheating. Well, he'd been cheated on before. But the way Ziva made him feel was just plain _shitty_. Worse than he'd felt when any other girl treated him wrong, and though he was a player himself, there had been quite a few that had did things that were downright cold.

But he smiles anyways. "Do you want a drink?"

"No," she answers immediately, and he notices for the first time how good she looks. Tight jeans, long sleeved black top. Star of David. Side swept curls. Minimal make-up. Which of course leads him to think about how bad he looks, hair unwashed, clad only in three day old pajamas that smell like booze. "I want to go out for lunch and talk."

"Alrighty. You know, the ideal way to ask somebody on a date is to call them and or send a flower person to their door. But I'll take it."

"Sorry. I forgot all about my personal flower-bearer. How rude of me."

Considering he didn't have a girlfriend to strew magazines about, kids to smear finger paint on the carpet, or food to cook that would dirty dishes, his apartment is relatively clean. "Make yourself at home," he tells her. "I've got to shower and get rid of my slightly too manly scent. I might even put on my three hundred dollar cologne."

"Oh, I wouldn't bother with that," she tells him off-handedly, collapsing onto his couch. "I didn't even shave my legs."

Like he was really planning on sleeping with her anyways. Ha.

He's styling his hair (that's grown considerably longer during his work hiatus. Not necessarily OSU long, but maybe the length it was when Kate was alive) with a bath towel tied around his waist when he reaches for his three hundred dollar cologne, just for the hell of it. It's been a long time since he's got ready for anything, much less something resembling a date.

Not that he wants to go on a date with Ziva.

Not that he doesn't.

He sighs, giving up on his hair and settling on running his fingers through it instead of reaching for the American Crew Styling Gel and yellow comb perched on the corner of his counter. After a nice t-shirt is pulled over his head and his favorite jeans are covering his legs, he exits into the living room only to find Ziva asleep, mouth forming an adorable 'O', breath evened.

He almost doesn't want to wake her.

"Oh, come on, Ziva! I did not take _that_ long."

He did say 'almost'.

She squints one of her doe-eyes open and groans. "I said lunch and now it's dinner time. You take longer to get ready than any girl I've ever met."

"You go out on dates with girls often?"

She rolls her eyes. "Don't get too excited, Tony. Wouldn't want to have to calm you down."

"Why not? Sounds like fun to me. And rule number twelve... Well, last time I checked, we don't work together anymore."

She ignores the last part, jiggling her keys. "You coming or not?"

Their early dinner is different. Ever since Somalia there's been an underlying _something_ between them, and that something seems to be gone now. That _something_ is replaced with their earlier friendship that held no depth, that was fun and carefree and sexy. There was no awkward talks about 'just friends', no rejection, no cockblocks. The whole thing was very page 57-esque, and the most serious the conversation got was when she briefly mentioned Gibbs.

"He's still not back."

"Does it really surprise you?" Tony said, smile still plastered on his face from earlier in their conversation.

She shakes her head. "I suppose not. But we could've helped him with whatever he's off doing."

"I know. I think he thinks we've helped him enough."

And then it was back to talking to a Ziva that was void her father's death, barren the weight of killing her own brother, the young Ziva. The funny Ziva. The provocative, care-free, sexy Ziva that didn't have Somalia carried with her everywhere she went like an unshakable weight. And he wants to ask, "What the hell happened to you?" but doesn't. Instead he enjoys it for what it is. And 'what it is' is his Ziva. She's finally back.

They aren't even inside his apartment yet and she's shoving him against the wall, arms linked around his neck and pulling her body closer to his, her movements frantic. He lets her kiss him, not retaliating but not exactly encouraging it either. Because he can't force himself away from her kiss- it's addicting. Just like it was when Gibbs quit seven years ago. Just like when they went undercover. Back in the good ole days. Then he remembers Kate and corrects himself: the better-than-now ole days.

Her kiss is intoxicating, and the barely identifiable feeling of fingers ghosting his belt buckle is enough to make him shiver. But he catches both of her wrists in one of his hands, switching positions and shoving her against the wall as opposed to her being the shover. He holds her hands above her head, staring into her eyes that were laced with passion and desire. "What the hell, Ziva?"

"I want you," she answers simply, lunging for another kiss. He dodges it swiftly, her lips stopping short.

Two of his hands find her waist, and he stares down at her, trying to see past her wall. But that's just it- the wall seems to be nonexistent, and willing brown orbs are all he sees when he makes eye contact with her. The setting sun pours in through the windows, its light casting whimsical shadows over the apartment, and the darkness of her irises almost fuses together with the multitude of obscurities completely. Almost.

He shakes his head as he releases her, and her arms fall limply by her side, hitting the wall with a dull thud. "Why today? You've had all summer." _You've had eight years._

"I was thinking last night. About you. About Somalia." He can tell how much of a struggle it is for her to say the word as if it holds no significance to her, as if her father didn't leave her to die there. As if that wasn't the location that she was beaten half to death in.

"And?" Tony asks, slipping his hands to each side of her waist simply because he needs to touch her, has wanted to touch her for years. And now he could, so he would. And he did.

"Thanks, Tony. Thank you so much," she whispers, and he kisses her back when her lips find his again. He lets his tongue slip into her mouth, allows his fingers to explore her body, tangle into her hair. She'd thanked him before for saving her ass, but never like this.

However, once again he stops her fingers before they can rid him of his belt. "What now?" she all but hisses, and he's threatened to laugh at her frustration.

He refrains, and instead mutters one word. "Adam."

"I cannot un-sleep with him," she says. "I swear, you guys tell me I'm emotionless. You guys tell me I need to be human. Well, Tony, I had my moment of weakness. And I regret it every day." Her voice is a whisper when she continues, her accent dancing over the strange angles of light. "I am so sorry. Like I said before, I never meant to hurt you."

He kisses her. Even though he can't say that he forgives her, he does have a little more closure. And he has the woman of his dreams. So really it's a win-win situation.

And, on top of everything, she was lying about shaving her legs.


End file.
